


pandora's box

by Medea_Nunc_Sum



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Kissing, M/M, i dunno mate they just kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 06:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19223275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medea_Nunc_Sum/pseuds/Medea_Nunc_Sum
Summary: They existed as a calamity in a locked box with the key still turning; each click a heart beat roaring in their ears.





	pandora's box

London was dark, storm clouds rising over the tops of buildings, blocking out what few stars poked their way through the city’s gloom. Lights glinted off signs; spilling out of windows, leaking out of doorways. Thunder rumbled across the sky as a warning. 

Or a promise.

Crowley had tucked himself into a stuffed armchair, his bare feet pressed into the crease between the armrest and cushion, sunglasses low on his nose, He watched Aziraphale putter around his shop, checking his books for any damage (there was none), and the walls for burn marks (they were untouched). Notes, maps, and pens were spread out along the desk, bottles of wine with a slight layer of dust along the glass rested, unopened. 

“I told you,” Crowley said as Aziraphale passed him once more. He rolled his eyes, spread his arms across the chair, somehow coiled and spread out at the same time. “Everything back the way it was.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale moved a few pens around and gathered a couple of papers into a pile. Occasionally, his eyes would turn outward to the empty street. Watching for angels that would—hopefully—not appear for a while.

(Crowley could still feel the sulfur of Hellfire sticking to his gums. He tongued edges of his teeth, hissed under his breath, and used the burn to distract himself from the feeling of hatred for the archangels that still blazed around his heart.)

“It’s done,” he said instead, “Everything’s _fine_.” A half-hearted, lazy wave followed the words. “Sit down, Angel.”

Aziraphale paused in front of the armchair, wringing his hands, eyes still moving over leaver bindings. “I know,” he said, “I know, I just—” A sigh. A pause. 

Crowley closed his eyes and hummed under his breath. Perhaps they had gotten too attached to their material goods. Gone too native.

Gentle fingers pulled the sunglasses off his nose and Crowley peeked, glancing at Aziraphale. Blue eyes were dark under the light of faded, amber lamps. Shadows dipped into the waves of his hair and blonde looked almost peach surrounded by so much brown and softened jack-o'-lantern orange. 

The lines of the angel’s face were faded, smeared from sharpness like graphite across a page. Crowley stared at him and felt longing spill through his arteries like a bed of blooming roses; pricking at his heart and playing the alveoli like guitar strings. 

He was saying something.

“What?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I said,” he continued his tone playfully echoing a similar one used by a serpent some six-thousand years prior. “That I’m glad that God planned it all this way,” he paused, and added almost as if to cover his own tracks; “if she did.”

Crowley felt a snake-like smile grow on his features like the blossoms of an apple tree. “Questioning the Almighty? You?” He said and tutted. “I thought it was all ineffable.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t use my own words against me, my dear.”

Crowley’s laugh was more a hiss than bark and slithered across his tongue like a shot of aged whiskey. He sat up and draped one leg over the side of the armchair, the other on the floor.   “I would never,” the words dripped from his lips, soaked in honey. 

His mouth went dry as Aziraphale stepped into his space. Thighs brushing, skin warm.

Snake-eyes widened, bared and open.

An ache spread through Crowley’s chest. A quiet thing; soft and burning. It was a language of skin and a language of flowers. He held his breath.

London continued on outside the bookshop. Cars passed in the street. Thunder rumbled overhead.

Sunglasses were placed on the armrest.

An Angel and a Demon met each other’s gazes. They existed as a calamity in a locked box with the key still turning; each click a heart beat roaring in their ears.

Aziraphale brushed his thumb underneath Crowley’s chin and stars seemed to ignite beneath the touch. Sometimes, when he slept, he would dream of the cosmos but they never felt as warm, as kind, no matter how carefully he had crafted them.

And when their lips met, Crowley knew they weren’t like humans; that they didn’t have souls.

But Aziraphale kissed his all the same.


End file.
